Miller nodded. "My only regret, Mrs. Foster, is that his insurance will just about cover his embezzlements. The rest—"
"I wouldn't touch it—or him—with a ten-foot pole," she blazed.
Jacobson met Miller at the door. "He got around," he said. "Blackmail, embezzlement, and outright larceny. There's been talk of drug-peddling and white slave traffic. Why or how the bird managed to be such a thorough stinker and still maintain his position here I'll never tell you."
Miller looked at the coroner, who was just polishing up his job. Miller said, "Whoever did it did Foster a favor. Between you and me, we'd have had him between nutcrackers in another week."
Jacobson nodded. "Couldn't have been suicide?"
Miller shook his head. "After filling himself that full of lead, he was too dead to toss that gun. Furthermore, he was shot from greater than arm's distance. No," said Miller, "someone 'done him in' and should possibly be commended. Plain case of: 'Too bad, thank God!'"
Martha Evers watched her image on the stage in the studio theater. Beside her was Martin Hammer who was watching the performance with interest. Martha was watching with wonder; Hammer had seen this thing at work before and was more concerned with the technical portions of the opus than the wonder of watching a life-sized, living, breathing, talking image perform.
On the other side of Martha Evers was Tim Woodart, who was just watching. He was more or less out of a job since professional photographers had taken over the job of making the performance.
"But how is it done?" she asked him.